A garage-less winter

Feeling exposed at Christmas

We spent Thanksgiving in California, where the twinkle lights are strung through palms and the sun sets on the ocean. Not only was I longing for my mother’s apple cranberry pie, but I am nearly six months out from my breast cancer surgery, and I had a slew of follow-up appointments. So before the holiday, it was all masks and imaging and the dry, sterile smell of isopropyl alcohol in every office. On the day I had three appointments lined up, between them my mom and I ordered orange mascarpone pancakes and wandered wide-eyed into a shop filled with tabletop mercury glass and glitter-laden Christmas trees in every color. 

The contrast was enough to make me dizzy: the glow of my subcutaneous tissue on ultrasound followed by the rich delights of holiday cheer. Drawing up nose to nose with mortality and then indulging in beauty anyway. I suspect this is what we’re all doing these days. 

Christmas is never tidy. Not now, not then. If you want to talk about medical trauma, let’s discuss a teenager giving birth in an animal pen, without her mother, without her community, and with a severely high risk of death to both herself and her infant. She could have had the most faith in the world, and still I’m sure the statistics sat breathing down her perspiring neck. As they do mine. 

Back in Montana, we finally got some snow. I am perpetually conflicted by the stuff. I love the way snow blankets us in quiet, the way the landscape illuminates at night, and the way it ushers in a season of rest. But I am afraid of driving in it, my boots never feel warm enough, and then there is the issue of the buried car in the morning. I’d say it’s triggering, if the word weren’t so overused, but there is something about needing to clear snow off my car that reminds me I no longer have a garage. And my not having a garage is directly linked to my not living in the house where I had a garage, which is linked to my not being married anymore, which is linked to eighty-seven other loaded realities. 

Every single time I pull the long, plastic snow brush from the trunk and begin to swipe at the fluff like a Californian, clearing the windshield of ice, and generally getting snow all over my clothes, the first domino is knocked over. Then it’s the missing garage, and the other house, and our family that used to be four, and the kids, and how they’re struggling, and how I’m struggling, until every domino has fallen, and I can’t feel my fingers. 

If you’ve lived in a wintry place without a garage, you know you can’t ever brush off all the powder. When I’m finally headed out, all I can see on the road are clean cars and their drivers. I think, with no small amount of shame, Those people still have garages.   

There are a few popular personalities out there who write inspiring posts and books, and who love to focus on rising above our difficulties, planting victory flags on every mountaintop crested. I just can’t spiritually or emotionally bypass what’s hard anymore. It never really works to free us anyway. All I can do is drive my car around with snow on it.

It was never about needing someone to remove the snow for me; that wasn’t the point. It’s that the snow tells a story that I lived, and that story had some really sad parts. I’m not sure I need to extricate myself from that story — telling myself I’ve conquered something and don’t need a garage anyway because as a person, I am kicking snow’s ass — as much as I need to abide in it, follow its emotional arc, become more of myself as it unfolds, and order orange mascarpone pancakes whenever possible. 

The thread running through my doctor’s appointments and the Christmas story and my snow-covered car is the feeling of exposure. I think it’s why I’ve never claimed Christmas was my favorite holiday: it inevitably involves my exposure. The season feels like a set up that way. I end up the girl in the animal pen with not enough. I end up scared, facing every good thing that’s missing and every scary thing that’s not. In December, I run into a God who’s asking me to bear and bring to life far more than I think I can.

Christmas isn’t easy for me because I am part-Mary, living in impossibility and questions, whispering prayers. Holding on. Trusting with everything I have that I will see (and maybe even birth) the goodness of God in the land of the living, even in the snow. I’m not sure Jesus ever saw snow; he certainly never drove in it. But he knew exposure. He knew the way vulnerability catches you in the chest. He was vulnerable from day one. We ought to talk about this more, the way Christmas and vulnerability hold hands, but this is what Immanuel means, “God with us,” both in his knowing what it feels like to be human, and in his persistent presence.

To feel vulnerable is to fit right into the Christmas story, aching and wishing for the impossible while seeing everything that’s missing. We are all huddled in that dark stable, taking turns, each midwives to a miracle.

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make this.

Night-Before Breakfast Strata

Is it weird, the transition from the heavy stuff to, “Let’s talk about eggs!” It makes me laugh, but I love the practical offerings of Small Affaris as much as the rest, so we shall carry on.

I’ve made this strata for so many years, I no longer remember its origin. I *think* the original version may have come from a cookbook I got for my wedding, which was in 1997, so let’s just decide it’s mine now. I make it nearly every Christmas Eve and every Easter Eve, since those tend to be late nights prepping and early mornings with kids where I very much appreciate something already made for breakfast. (I’ve also brought this to every women’s Bible study brunch, MOPS, first day of school mom’s breakfast, you get the idea.)

Do yourself the favor of prepping this super simple recipe the night before Christmas morning. You will be so happy you did. It is hearty, comforting, and my kids love it. It is the very best served with some fresh fruit on the side. Also, please note below where I recommend using a rosemary sourdough loaf if at all possible. It adds a yummy, herby flavor. Or you could just add some minced rosemary to the egg mixture if you have it.

Here is the magical part where you will THANK yourself for spending the 20 minutes it will take to prep this. In the morning, when your kids wake up at an ungodly hour, you will walk into the kitchen, set the oven at 350, uncover your strata and throw it in the cold oven. By the time all the presents are unwrapped and your kids are quietly playing, breakfast will be ready and the house will smell like happiness. Not even Santa can bring you that goodness.

Ingredients:

1 pound breakfast sausage, ground or casings removed

4 eggs

2.5 C half and half (I know, it’s okay, buy the quart size)

1 tsp dried sage or thyme

3/4 tsp salt

1/4 tsp pepper

12 oz shredded cheddar

1 rustic loaf or 6-8 slices sturdy bread like sourdough (best: rosemary sourdough loaf)

Step 1:

Preheat oven to 350. Brown sausage, cutting or crumbling into small pieces. Drain on paper towels. While that’s happening, whisk together in a bowl the eggs, half and half, herbs, salt, and pepper.

Step 2:

If you’re using a rustic loaf of bread, slice off the tough bottom crust and discard. Then cut the rest of the loaf into 1-2” cubes.

Step 3:

Generously butter something you’d cook a casserole in, such as a 9”x13” glass baking dish (I prefer one that’s a bit deeper than the typical Pyrex). Layer the bread, then the sausage, then egg mixture and top with shredded cheese. Using a piece of plastic wrap, gently press all of the mixture together, letting the bread soak up the liquid. Cover and place in fridge overnight if you’re making it the next morning.

Step 4:

Bake until strata is set in the middle, about 30-45 min. It might be closer to an hour if you’re using a cold oven and refrigerated dish. You’ll think it’s done about 3 times before it really is. I use a butter knife, poke straight into the center and lean it right and left. When there is no more liquid, it’s done. If you feel the cheese starts to brown too much, loosely place a piece of foil over it toward the end. It will be fantastically puffy when it is finally done. Let it cool 15 min before serving.

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watch this.

The Bible Project YouTube Channel

Let’s say someone asked you, “What is the Bible even about?” or “Who was Jesus, anyway?” Well, the fantastic guys over at The Bible Project have created beautiful, engaging, brief, and simple animated videos for these and many, many more questions you (or your child or your friend) might be asking. A non-profit animation studio with nearly 3 million subscribers, it provides all content for free, and it is an incredibly valuable resource for both kids and adults.

I love learning about words, and there are tons of videos on word studies, like words related to advent, words from ancient Hebrew, words we hear thrown around a lot without really knowing what they mean, like “soul” and “love” and “joy.” But then there are videos on each book of the Bible too, as well as ones that explore major themes and concepts.

Here’s a short video summarizing the birth of Jesus.

Here’s one explaining what the word “peace” means.

Here’s one exploring the many literary genres that appear in the Bible.

And oh my word, here’s one telling the whole story of Ruth, and it’s lovely.

There are hundreds of videos on their channel. And during the quarantine, my kids and I would watch a few of these each Sunday. I’ve spent my entire life in church, and I learn so much from The Bible Project’s videos. And if you’re wondering where this channel falls in terms of theology, what I will say is that I love how creator Tim Mackie leaves room for wonder, speculation, and interpretation.

If you’d like somewhere to start, here is the very first one, explaining what the Bible Project is all about.

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I hope your December is sending you deeper into what’s true, deeper into embrace. I hope you are reconciling with vulnerability and meeting Immanuel in it. I hope your household is well. And I pray you feel the unrelenting nearness of the Lover who keeps coming near.

You are the beloved,

Leslie

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